


Wilted Flowers

by kramer53



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Grief/Mourning, One Shot, Sort Of, Zuella is a ghost, fukin rip, wrote this before it was said how her name was spelled
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 02:23:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17194706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kramer53/pseuds/kramer53
Summary: In the darkness of the night, Yasha allows herself to grieve.





	Wilted Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> So I just watched the last episode and lemme tell you,,, my heart? Destroyed. I literally word vomited this so I have no idea if this is good or not. This is basically a whirlwind of emotions so here goes

It’s in the darkness of night that Yasha allows the longing to overtake her. It’s always there, lurking at the back of her mind, but it isn’t until she’s completely alone that she stops pushing it down. The dull, incessant throb explodes inside her chest, sinking its mangled claws deep into her vulnerable heart until her whole body pulses with an indescribable urge. An urge to hold her hand again, to feel her body’s weight, to tuck a flower into the braids of her hair.

It’s in the darkness of night that Yasha curls up on her bed and feels phantom arms embrace her from behind. Her skin burns where the ghost’s skin touches hers. An arm tucks around her waist, pulling her closer. The weight of a head ducking itself into the crook of her neck; of a nose brushing lightly against her pulse. She feels lips moving against the skin of her neck, the whispered words of love imprint themselves there and sink into her body and drift to her heart. Somehow, the mangled claws only tighten their hold.

Yasha reaches a hand back and clenches her fist. She imagines her fingers burying deep into her wife’s tresses, imagines gently massaging her head as the other woman drifts off into a blissful sleep.

She inhales shakily, careful to not let any noise escape. Despite her efforts, a small whimper wrenches its way past her sealed lips and into the quiet air. Her eyes are screwed shut, forehead scrunched. Her face contorts as she wills the illusion into existence. She longs to turn her head and look the other woman in the eye. She wants to capture her lips with her own and lock them together until the sun rises with a new day. But she knows— _Stormlord she knows_ —that if she turns, the ghost will disappear and the bittersweet burning on her skin will cease to exist.

Hot tears carve their way down her cheeks. They fall to the mattress below, soaking the sheets with her sorrow. The wetness spreads across the fabric, and she feels the cold against her skin—a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the phantom limbs. It grounds her there, in the cot. It refuses to let her mind give way to illusion and petty sentiment. Some part of her is grateful for its presence. Another part despises it.

She gets no sleep that night.

When the sun’s rays seep through the cracks of the ship, the arm around her waist slips away. She feels the bed behind her dip, and the ends of hair tickle her skin as lips kiss away the tears still wet on her cheek.

“Goodbye, love,” her wife whispers.

Yasha grabs the hand on her shoulder, laces her fingers with her wife’s. “Please don’t go.”

But it’s already too late. Her fingers wrap around nothing, and the weight pressing into her back dissipates.

“I still have flowers to give you.”


End file.
